


Hearts and Flowers

by ficbear



Series: Gunsel [20]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Anal Sex, Fight Sex, Journalism, M/M, Older Man/Younger Man, Oral Sex, Organized Crime, Polyamory, Rentboys, Rough Sex, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-20
Updated: 2014-06-20
Packaged: 2018-02-05 12:08:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1817926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ficbear/pseuds/ficbear
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I want to get up and walk out of here. I want to leave this conversation and this boy and this whole night behind. But even if I did, where would I go? Round to Miller's place, so he can tell me again in looks and sighs and silences how much of a coward I'm being? Round to one of the bars where I know I won't bump into Tommy? Home, so I can lie there half-sober and wide-awake and trying not to think about any of this?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hearts and Flowers

Miller looks at me with those calm eyes, and arches a golden eyebrow. "Oh, it's purely coincidence, is it?"

"Course it is," I say, glancing away. "What'd I want to avoid him for? Doesn't matter to me where he goes, does it?"

"You were away for a long time." His voice is smooth and warm, like it always is when he knows he's got me on the run. "And then of course we were at the lake house for a fortnight. The poor boy hasn't seen you for four months, Johnny."

"Well, so what? What's it matter to him, whether he sees me or not?"

Miller laughs quietly. "Do you really want me to answer that?"

I look down at my glass and make like the dregs in the bottom are suddenly riveting.

"It's quite clear that you're avoiding Tommy," he says, putting his hand on my arm. "And it's just as clear _why_."

I throw off his hand and get to my feet, and before I know it I'm reaching like clockwork into my pocket for a knife that isn't there. I wasn't going to pull it. I wasn't. It's just habit.

"Sit down." Miller gives the order quietly and calmly, just like he did the first time this happened, when he made me hand over the knife and tucked it away in his inside pocket like he was confiscating a packet of sweets. He knew then and he knows now that I wouldn't cut him. We both know that, but it still hurts, every time I do this. It hurts enough that I might as well have turned the knife on myself. I sit down without saying anything, without looking at him. Out of the corner of my eye I see him waving the waiter across, and we sit in silence while the boy goes off to fetch another couple of drinks. By the time the waiter comes back, my heart's just about stopped hammering in my chest. I sit and sip my water—Miller keeps an eye on how much I drink these days, and the minute I get out of hand it's water for the rest of the night—and he drinks his gimlet silently, just sitting next to me, looking out into the crowd. After a few minutes his hand moves back to my arm, and this time I let it stay there. This time the warmth of it isn't too much.

It was the warmth of him that set me off the first time, the first night I got back. We were on our own in the lounge at the lake house, and we'd been sitting on the sofa together for hours, not talking, just listening to the radio. Eventually I fell asleep. When I woke up, the sky was getting light, and I was stretched out on the sofa with a blanket over me. Miller was sitting in the armchair opposite, his eyes shut and his face as still as the sky outside. I watched him for a long time, and when his eyes finally opened, he gave me a smile full of light and warmth. _You must have missed me immensely,_ he said, _to be staring at me like that_. The next thing I knew I was on my feet, with my knife in my hand and one of Ricky’s scowls on my face. Miller didn’t even let me flick the knife open. He took it out of my hand before I had a chance, put the thing in his pocket, and didn’t say a word about it. We just carried on with the morning like nothing had happened, but somehow a little bit of that fury drained away, when he took the knife off me. A little bit more drains away every time I flare up, every time he calms back me down.

So right now, with his hand on my arm and his eyes settled on the crowd below us, I feel almost as calm as he looks. I watch him as he watches the people milling around down there, drinking and eating, dancing and talking. He looks so content with it all, like everything's going according to plan, like everything's turning out fine. When I look at him, it feels like it _is_.

A flicker of interest lights up Miller's eyes, and I follow his gaze across to the foot of the staircase. The boy he's watching is younger than us, early twenties I reckon, slim and dark, with neat glossy hair and a pastel blue suit. Good-looking too, in a smug kind of way, but not the type that'd grab Miller's attention and hold it, if it wasn't for the fact the boy's heading up the stairs towards us like a man on a mission.

"Evening, gentlemen," the boy says, in an accent that's not as southern as Miller's, but not far off it.

I look at him, and Miller looks at him, and no-one says anything for a few seconds. If this boy was anyone worth worrying about, Miller would've given the nod to Joe's new understudy squad as soon as he set foot on the stairs, so he must be small fry. Maybe he just likes the look of the VIP tables and wants to see if that pretty face is enough to pay his way. It's not, or at least not according to Miller's ledgers it isn't, but I guess looking at how the golden boy's dressed you might think he's the spendthrift type.

"I'm sorry to interrupt," the boy says, not bothering to extend the apologetic tone all the way to his lips. Those stay sly and smiling, and his eyes stay sharp and hungry.

"Not at all." Miller returns the smile as he says it, only his is cold and hard and golden. "What can we do for you?"

"I was hoping to talk to you, if you don't mind, for a story I'm writing." He sits down without being asked, next to Miller but straight across from me. It takes me a minute to realise that he's looking at _me_ , talking at _me_ , talking _to_ me. "I'm a journalist, you see," he carries on, fixing those greedy brown eyes on mine. "I write for the Standard, nothing exceptional, but it pays the rent." And he gives a little laugh there, as if to say, _the things we do for money, eh?_

In the old days I'd smile at that, but tonight my mood's on a knife-edge, and my reply is almost a bark. "So? What's this story got to do with us?"

"Well, I want to write about your organisation, of course!" he says, like I'm a bit slow.

My eyebrows go up at that, but when I glance at Miller the look on his face has softened and thawed. Now he looks like he's listening to a little kid telling him tall tales.

"Hang on," I say, still not quite caught up to whatever Miller's figured out. "You work for a paper, surely you know no-one's going to publish anything you write about us."

"Oh, _obviously_ I know that. This is purely for my own interest," the boy says, pausing to give me a spicy little smile, "and of course it's risky to even ask questions about these things, but all the most worthwhile experiences in life involve a little danger, don't you think?"

Alright, now I get it. This journalist's just a harmless tourist, and Miller's in a good enough mood to put up with it for the moment, so I guess I am too. "Sure," I say, playing along. "Alright then, what do you want to know?"

"Everything," the boy says, with a grin that's almost endearing. "But let's start with the basics. You've been working for your, er… your _employer_ for a few years now, haven't you?"

"Yeah, that's right."

"And you've been with the organisation much longer," the boy says, throwing Miller a table-scrap of a glance, "haven't you, Mr Miller? Since you lost your—"

"Next question," I snap, before Miller even has to think about answering.

"Alright," the boy says, putting his palms up. "How did you get involved with all this?" he says, waving his hands at the tables around us as if he meant the nightclub itself.

"Used to make my money shinning up drainpipes, only one night I tried my luck at the wrong house." I glance at Miller, and the corner of his mouth quirks just slightly, but somehow both of us keep a straight face as I carry on. "The old guy who owned the place caught me stuffing his heirloom clocks into my bag, and he decided he'd rather have my light fingers at his disposal than hand such an obviously talented young man over to the coppers."

"Oh, I see!" The boy sounds like he's not buying a word of it, but at the same time he seems fascinated, like the facts of it don't matter at all, as long as the story I'm telling him is nice and racy. "And did he put you straight to work, or was there a sort of apprenticeship period?"

"Straight in at the deep end." I flash him a smile. "Just the way I like it."

"Well," Miller says, looking at the thin gold watch on his wrist, "I'm afraid I'm needed elsewhere, so I'll have to leave you to it." As he stands, he puts his hand on my shoulder and squeezes it gently. "Call me at the office if you need me."

Which is how he always says goodnight when he's leaving me to one of my pickups. Sometimes I half-expect a kiss on the cheek as he says it. Maybe these days a pat on the head would be more like it. In any case, the journalist barely seems to notice Miller leaving. He just gives the golden boy a little nod, and carries right on grilling me.

"So," he says, moving his chair around so he's sitting right next to me, "Castro's not your real surname, is it?"

I laugh, but I don't reply. Yeah, there's an old couple in a council house twenty miles east of here that gave me a different one, it came free with the empty cupboards and the shouting and the smashed plates, but I'm damned if I'm going to call that _real_. The boss gave me this name the day he picked me up, told me who I was, like in one of those bible stories, and that felt more real to me than anything that came before it.

But I don't say any of that. I just shrug and say "You _have_ been digging around, haven't you?"

"Oh yes," he laughs, "you wouldn't _believe_ the lengths I went to, once I'd caught wind of this story."

And then he starts telling me about all the people he's flattered and lied to and paid off for scraps of information about us, but I'm not really listening. I'm looking at the reddish-brown blush of excitement on his cheeks, which you might mistake for embarrassment if it wasn't for the way his eyes keep darting from my face to my hands to my lap like he wants to eat me alive and he's sizing up the best place to start. I'm looking at the dark, heavy sweep of his eyelashes and the smooth pink curve of his lips. Every so often he licks his lips, giving me a flash of red tongue that makes it impossible to think of anything except having that tongue on my skin. I'm not listening at all, so when he stops talking and raises an eyebrow, it takes me a few seconds to work out that he must have asked me a question.

"What?" I frown a bit, as if I heard his question alright, only it was a stupid one and I'm giving him a chance to rephrase it.

"I said, how long have you been on the game?"

Which really throws me.

"I'm not on the—" I start to say, and then I stop and think, _well, am I?_ What I do for the boss, is it renting, _really_? And if it is, then what about all the other stuff, all the things I did before I met him, the things I still do when I'm bored on a night off? Where d'you draw the line? Was it renting, when I was sixteen and I got friendly with that usher at the pictures, the one who always shoved a few notes into my pocket afterwards? And before that, what about the old guys at the pub I used to sneak into every Friday after school, the ones who made sure I never paid for a single drink? Was that renting?

The boy looks at me with a funny expression, and shrugs. "You're one of Mr Turner's rent-boys, aren't you?"

And the thing is, I don't know what the answer is. I've been having sex and taking money, presents, treats, whatever—I've been doing all that since I discovered sex in the first place. It seemed as natural as breathing, and it still does. But was it my job back then? Is it my job now? I've got no idea, and not knowing the answer is starting to embarrass me, so I return his shrug and say "Something like that," like I'm just playing it cool.

"Obviously I know a bit about the jobs you do for him nowadays," the boy carries on, "but nothing about what came before all that. That's not surprising, of course. I know Mr Turner makes sure there's nothing juicy to find if someone goes digging about his boys—how everything gets tidied up, so you're all future and no past, like in that film—but there's usually _something_ left over. With you there's nothing. If he got rid of you, it'd be like you never existed."

That makes me think of things I don't want to remember, so I stiffen my shoulders and let my face freeze over. "So?"

"So it means I've got nowhere to start my story."

"And you reckon I care about that, do you?"

"Oh yes," he says, propping his chin up on one hand and giving me a bright smile. "Because I one thing I _do_ know is that you've got a terrible weakness for a pretty face."

I want to tell him to shove off. I want to call Joe's new team over and have this kid thrown out on his ear. I want to get up and walk out of here. I want to leave this conversation and this boy and this whole night behind. But even if I did, where would I go? Round to Miller's place, so he can tell me again in looks and sighs and silences how much of a coward I'm being? Round to one of the bars where I know I won't bump into Tommy? Home, so I can lie there half-sober and wide-awake and trying not to think about any of this?

"You're right," I grin at the boy, and put my hand on his shoulder. "I have."

When I stand up, he does too, and he follows me out of the club and onto the street like I've got him on a string, peppering me with questions the whole way. Even in the cab, when any other boy would be all over me, he just keeps talking and talking. By the time I get him up the stairs to my flat, I've had enough. I grab hold of his lapel and shove him up against the wall and tell him to be quiet, keeping my voice nice and low, and my grip on him nice and tight.

"You want any more information out of me, you're going to earn it."

"Alright," he says, smiling up at me. "I said I'd do anything for a story, and I meant it."

He knows exactly what he's doing. As soon as I've locked the door behind us he starts stripping off, and I just stand there and watch him, waiting to see how he's going to play it. He takes his jacket and shirt off quickly, but once he's bare-chested he seems to switch gears, slowing down and lingering over it, making me wait. I don't mind. I let my eyes roam over his skin while he undresses, enjoying the rich, dark contrast it makes with the pale body my mind keeps wandering onto whenever I get distracted. There are no cuts or scrapes on him, no bruises, no tattoos. He's nothing like Tommy at all.

I take my jacket off and loosen my tie, but that's as far as I go. I'm trying to keep my distance, and it looks like the boy likes it that way. He presses himself against me, one hand on my lapel and the other stroking me through my trousers, and he keeps his eyes down the whole time. You might think he'd come over all bashful, but I don't reckon that's it. I think he's looking at the contrast between us, at all that smooth bare skin pressed against the pinstripe of my suit, enjoying the sight as if he was just an observer and not the model. I've done it myself often enough, found myself watching a hookup from above or outside somehow, narrating it to myself like I'm watching a film, enjoying my own body the same way I'd enjoy a stranger's. Which is all well and good, but right now I want his mind on the job.

I give him a little push on the shoulders, and he looks up at me with a kind of hazy smile as he drops to his knees, like he's just woken up. With his hands wrapped around my cock, and that red tongue lapping at me, I could almost believe he was doing this just for the fun of it. He could be any eager little clerical type I'd picked up in a bar, the kind that comes in once a month when he's in a daring mood, just after payday, when the feeling of having money's gone right to his head. Kneeling there, licking a hot wet trail up and down the shaft of my cock, he could be any of the nice boys who've gone home with me for the thrill of being fucked by someone a few rungs down the ladder. Naked and at my feet, sucking my cock like he can't get enough, he could be anyone. Anyone at all.

"After this," he says, pulling back and looking up at me with big, hungry eyes, "after this you'll tell me everything, right?"

"Yeah," I laugh. "Maybe."

I shove his head down, locking both hands around the back of it, and I hold him there until he starts to choke, until I can feel him tensing and shuddering around me. When I let him up for air, he pulls back and looks up at me, damp-eyed and grinning, with his skin slick with spit and his lips red and swollen. He looks like he's having the time of his life.

"Do you want to fuck me?" he says, and I have to stifle a laugh, because that's the first question he's asked tonight that didn't seem designed to get on my nerves.

I put him on his back, so I can see his face. If I had him on his hands and knees, it'd be too easy to start thinking about another body, another face, another pair of eyes staring up at me. So I spread him out on the sofa, holding his throat in one hand and hooking the other under his knee, so I can keep my eyes on his face as I fuck him. At first he can't quite take it, and I have to go slow and careful, filling him up little by little and waiting for him to adjust to every slight push forward, but after a few minutes a switch seems to flick inside him, and he tips his hips up to meet mine, suddenly desperate to get as much as he can of me.

Well, I don't care about desperation, his or anyone else's. I hold back as long as I can, fucking him in shallow, gentle little strokes just to frustrate him. He hangs onto me with both hands, pressing his heels into my back, staring up at me pitifully like I'm giving him the worst torture he can think of. And that's the thing with saying you'll do _anything_ , isn't it? You never know what that 'anything' might turn out to be. So I grab hold of his wrists and pin them above his head, and then, _then_ I give it to him the way he wants, hard and heavy and deep. Every time I hit the right spot he flinches a bit, gritting his teeth and furrowing his brow like I'm hurting him, but he keeps begging for more. Scattered phrases, sentences that trail off into breathy little groans, and the word _please_ over and over, louder and louder, until I can't hold off another minute.

"Please, don't stop," he says, but that just pours oil on the fire. Somehow I don't even want to give him the satisfaction of coming inside him, so I pull out at the last minute and finish the job by hand, letting my come spray across his skin. Streaks of it splash his stomach and groin, glistening and dripping along the length of his cock, so it almost looks like I played nice and let him come too. Almost, but not quite.

"It's late." I say, letting go of him. "Go home."

"Hey," the boy says, not sounding half as annoyed as I'd be in his place. "You said you'd tell me the rest afterwards, remember?"

"Get dressed and get out."

"Fine, fine."

I look at him, at that sharp smile and those greedy eyes, and I get the feeling I could throw a bucket of cold water over him and it still wouldn't put him off.

"Another time, then!" he says brightly, as he leaves.

Sure, another time. As many times as he wants. What do I care, really?

 

* * *

 

Andrew wipes the last smear of come off his lips, and gets up to his feet. "Do you ever pay for this yourself?"

He never gives me much of a breather, it's always straight into the questions again as soon as we've finished. This is the fifth time I've brought him round here, and he's been the same every time. He asks me questions, and when I get sick of answering them, I push him down to his knees and tell him to get busy. He's good at it, too, so I guess a talent for sucking cock must be as handy in his line of work as it is in mine. But that's nothing compared to the talent he's got for asking questions upon questions. He's like one of those little dogs that never lets go once he's sunk his teeth into you.

"Yeah, as often as not," I say, shrugging. "More than I used to, anyway. Didn't really have the money for it before I started working for the old man."

"Really?"

He looks at me like he's only just realised maybe I didn't always wear fancy suits and drive a nice car. I guess he really couldn't dig up much about what I did before I met the boss. Part of me wants to tell him, even though it'd spoil the game we're playing, just to see whether it'd make him more or less interested. Part of me wants to make up a story even worse, to see if he'll believe it. And then I have a better idea.

"You could try it, you know."

"What, paying for sex?"

"Selling it."

He looks so aghast that I can't help laughing.

"Me?" he says, almost breathless. "I couldn't do that, I…"

"Why not?" I keep my tone light and casual. I can see in his face that he's tempted, that deep down he'd like a taste of this from the other end. Maybe that's what he's wanted all along. But he's not quite there, not until I shrug and say, "Can't really write about it til you've done it yourself, can you?"

Which is a stupid argument, and one I've heard Miller rip to shreds when he was talking to his friends about books, but it doesn't matter how flimsy the excuse is. It's a big glittering green light, telling Andrew it's okay, no-one could really blame him for dipping a toe in the water, since it's for his work or his art or whatever it is he thinks he's chasing after.

"That's right," he says, letting himself smile a little bit, like he's amused but not really bothered. "That's exactly right."

 

* * *

 

When I arrive, he's waiting across the road from the entrance, as if he doesn't want to stand too close on his own in case the open doorway sucks him in. He nods hello at me, and crosses over when I beckon him, like a little dog trotting up to me on command.

"Is this where you usually find your clients?" he says, sweeping those wide brown eyes across the place like a searchlight as we go inside.

"Not these days." I put a hand on his back and steer him towards one of the tables at the back of the bar. "Not unless I feel like doing a bit of freelancing for the fun of it."

He nods, and sits down when I point to one of the seats. Andrew might talk like a gawping tourist, but he looks like he belongs here. He's come straight from work, and since it's hot outside he's got his crumpled shirtsleeves rolled up and his tie loosened. He looks like all the other office-boys that come in here looking to earn a bit of overtime. Me, I look a bit out of place. Jeans and a leather jacket are starting to look quaint these days, but I guess I put them on for old times' sake. And besides, the kind of guys that we're fishing for tonight, they like it a bit old-fashioned. They'd be perfectly happy if we waited for them outside, leaning against the wall, smoking and acting tough, like the boys in those arty photos Miller likes.

When I ask him what he wants to drink, he answers "Oh, just beer, please," and then he frowns and lowers the volume and says "Actually, am I better off completely sober? Or is that going to look very odd, if I'm sitting here drinking orange juice? I suppose it could have vodka in it, for all anyone knows—"

"Beer it is, then." I pat him on the shoulder, and then out of sheer spite I lean forward and say "Now, don't you be talking to any strange men while I'm gone," just to see the flash of terror in his eyes.

By the time I get back to the table with the drinks, he's calmed down enough to be doing the _look-smile-look-away_ dance with the youngish guy sitting at the next table. I'm just getting ready to explain that unfortunately that guy's selling, not buying, when Andrew nudges me and says "What about those two, over there?"

I follow his gaze over to the two guys at the other end of the bar. At first I don't recognise the one with his back to me—he could be any one of the stocky, grey-haired fiftysomethings I know around here—but then I catch sight of the other one's face, the heavy dark brows and the eyes like two burned holes in a blanket, and I have to swallow a laugh.

"No, I think the Inspector's scene is a bit heavy for a first-timer."

"Ah." Andrew nods, and goes back to making eyes at the guy at the next table.

It's a slow night, and we're halfway down our second drinks by the time the right kind of customer finally turns up. What I want tonight is someone nice and reliable, someone I can do on autopilot, and as luck would have it, that's exactly what I get.

"Hello, Johnny," he says, sitting down at our table. "I haven't seen you here for a while."

"Been busy with work. You know how it is, Mr Hamilton."

"Oh, I do," he smiles at me, and then at Andrew. "I don't think we've met, have we?"

"No, we haven't," the boy says, in a shaky little voice that knocks about five years off his age. I put a hand on his shoulder while I do the introductions, and when I say "Andrew, this is Mr Hamilton," the old guy frowns and says " _Douglas_ , please," the same way he did when I first met him. I ignored it then, and I go right on ignoring it now. Hamilton's the kind you need to keep calling Mister no matter how much he protests, if you want more than one shot at his money.

"Well, then," he says, turning back to me. "Are you free tonight?"

"We are, yeah," I nod, and slip an arm around Andrew's shoulders. The feeling of him leaning against me, warm and soft and shaking just slightly, that's enough to throw my train of thought right off, and it takes me a minute to remember my next line. "The pair of us, I mean. Call it a two-for-one offer."

Hamilton chuckles and asks how much it'll be, and when I name the price he chuckles again and says "What a good job I've just had an advance, eh?"

He takes us to the hotel round the corner, which is fine by me. In the old days he used to take me back to his house, but I can't blame him for being a bit skittish about taking a new face back there, even though Andrew looks like the worst thing he'd do is bolt out the door before you were finished with him. And besides, if you're going to hire two boys for the night, maybe a flashy hotel room makes a better backdrop for that than a tasteful little house in a tasteful little suburb.

Once we're in the hotel room, Andrew seems to recover a bit of his normal bravado, and he starts unknotting his tie before Hamilton's even locked the door behind us. I'm glad he's showing some initiative, but I don't let him get any further than taking his tie off.

"Come here," I say, grabbing hold of his wrist and pulling him to me. Then I look over my shoulder at Hamilton and say "You want the usual stuff tonight?"

"Yes, yes, the usual." He smiles at me, and waves his hand as if to say _hurry up, I haven't got all night_.

I cup my hand around the back of Andrew's neck and drag him forward into a kiss. The minute my lips brush his, he goes for it full-throttle, flicking that hot little tongue against mine and winding his arms around my neck like he's scared to let go. I'd never bothered kissing him before, but tonight I can enjoy it. Tonight I've got Hamilton sitting there giving me a nice, sturdy alibi. He likes it a bit hearts-and-flowers, if he's got two of us together. Used to pick up me and my old friend Cam sometimes. We'd go at it on Hamilton's sofa, kissing and clutching at each other as if we were trying to eat each other alive, like a couple of sex-starved teenagers trying to get as much of other as they can before someone's parents come home. Hamilton used to just sit and watch, enjoying the show, and then whoever'd caught his eye the most would get to finish him off while the other one watched. Mostly that'd be me, since he likes dark hair better than redheads, so I'd end up sitting in his lap, riding the old guy while he told me over and over what a dirty boy I was. The whole time, Cam would be watching me with that look on his face that said _I don't know who to roll my eyes at more, him for being such a filthy old man, or you for enjoying it so much_.

So I go for the same kind of feverish approach this time, too, tugging Andrew's clothes off while he tries to help me off with mine, both of us as rushed and impatient as if we hadn't done all this just a couple of nights ago. I was planning to shove him down onto his knees next, but I don't get the chance. As soon as we're both naked, Hamilton stands up and beckons us.

"Kneel down, both of you."

Andrew goes for it even quicker than I do. He's on his knees sucking the old guy's cock before I've even gotten into position, and I have to barge him out of the way a bit to stop him stealing the show. A subtle elbow in the ribs is enough to convince him to play nice and share, though. Soon enough we're working together smoothly, licking at Hamilton's cock, taking turns sucking the head of it and lapping at the shaft, and breaking off every so often to kiss again, while the old guy rubs his cock against my cheek or Andrew's, until we're sore-lipped and sticky with spit.

"Dirty boys," Hamilton says, resting a hand on each of our heads. " _Thoroughly_ dirty, the pair of you…"

That's the highest praise you could get from this old guy, and I flash Andrew a smile when he glances at me, to make sure he gets the message. He grins back at me and gets right back to swallowing as much of Hamilton's cock as he can fit in that smug little mouth. His lips look so soft, so rosy and swollen, stretched so wide around the base of the old guy's cock, it looks almost impossible. It looks good enough to make me forget for a moment that I'm an actor here, not the audience.

"Very good," Hamilton says briskly, pulling out quick enough that I reckon Andrew's mouth nearly brought tonight to an early finish. "Now, get up on the bed, both of you."

We do as we're told, and when we're both stretched out in front of him, I grab a handful of Andrew's ass and give Hamilton a nice, hot smile.

"Want me to warm him up for you?"

The old guy laughs. "It isn't _him_ I want to fuck tonight, Johnny."

You'd think Andrew might take offence at that, but when I glance back at him, he's grinning at me like this couldn’t be going any better if he'd written it himself. Either he's really keen on the way I fuck him, or he just wants to see me get taste of what I've been dishing out to him for weeks now. Probably that last one, given how smug that grin looks from where I'm sitting.

"Put him on his back," Hamilton says, gesturing at us to hurry up. "And don't waste too much time preparing him."

By which he means, give Andrew just enough lube that he doesn't scream himself hoarse, but not a drop more. Got a real mean streak, this old guy has. It's all kissing and hugging and passionate clinches to start off with, sure, but when you get right down to it he likes the look of pain on a pretty face as much as any of the others. Which I guess is why he used to keep asking for me, back in the old days.

I follow my orders and give Andrew the bare minimum prep, and once I'm kneeling between his thighs, I push forward nice and slow, just like the first time. He takes it easier this time, and as well he should, with the amount of practice I've been giving him. He arches up against me as I press forward, wriggling and squirming underneath me until he's taken the whole of my cock. I stay still for a minute, waiting for him to give me the signal, and when he tips his head back onto the pillow and breathes "I'm ready…" like a nervous first-timer, the last of my self-control goes right out the window. I fuck him in short, fast thrusts, ramping up the pace as soon as he starts up with the sighing and moaning, and before long Hamilton's on his feet again, telling us what dirty boys we are as he gets into position behind me.

He might be a bit on the fancy side, but the old guy's nothing less than straightforward when it comes to fucking. He just lubes me up, slides his cock into me and starts nailing me good and hard right from the start, as rough and no-frillls about it as any tough-guy I've ever been pinned under. That's what I like best about this one, aside from his money. With him behind me, fucking me hard and fast and silent, he could be anybody. The wiry hair brushing against my skin, the hands gripping my waist, the hips slamming against my ass, they could be the boss's or Joe's or anybody's, anyone at all. But the boy underneath me, clinging onto my neck and breathing out these tortured little gasps like I'm half-killing him, he couldn't be anyone else. The heat of his ass, the smoothness of his skin, the faint damp touch of sweat on his stomach as he arches up against me, all of that couldn't be any other boy. I can't think of anyone else, with him spread out in front of me like this, not even if I—

"Oh! No, no, not yet," Andrew cries out, but it's too late for that, he's done for. He twists underneath me, digging his nails into my shoulders and gritting his teeth as he comes, shaking his head the whole time like he can force it back in the box by sheer willpower. When he's done, he looks up at me with tired eyes and a little sheepish smile. "Sorry…" he says, once he's caught his breath. "Happens sometimes, but I didn't think…"

"It's okay," I say quietly, leaning down so my lips are close to his ear. "But keep going til the old guy's done, alright?"

He smiles at me, and moans loud enough for Hamilton to hear. "Don't stop, Johnny," he says, running his nails down my back, "don't stop, I can go again…"

"I know you can, you filthy little slut," I laugh, and behind me I can hear Hamilton chuckling too, and now we're back in business. Andrew's hair-trigger might have even spiced things up for the old guy, if the way he ramps up the pace is anything to go by. He tightens his grip on my waist and fucks me hard enough that now _I've_ got to concentrate on not blowing my top too soon, and with Andrew still moaning and squirming underneath me, that's a job and a half. I stick with it, though, and I'm still holding on tight when Hamilton finally lets loose. He grabs my hair and yanks my head back hard as he comes, telling me what a pair of dirty boys me and Andrew are, and when he's done he pulls out and gives me a pat on the ass like I'm a really well-behaved dog.

"That's enough for tonight, boys." he says cheerfully, as he lays back on the bed. "Go and get cleaned up."

Andrew looks up at me, and opens his mouth like he's about to complain, but then he thinks better of it. He's hard again already, and I'll bet he wants to keep going, but somehow I'm as ready as Hamilton is for all this to be over.

I just smile at the boy and help him up off the bed. "Come on, don't hang around getting in Mr Hamilton's way."

"Alright," he says in a tired little voice, and he follows me into the en-suite almost meekly. He stays quiet while we get dressed, and even when we're collecting the money and saying goodbye to Hamilton, he just gives the old guy a shy smile and a reedy little "Goodnight", standing behind me like a frightened little kid. It's only once we're outside on the street that he seems to get his energy back.

"That went well, didn't it?" he says brightly, slipping his arm through mine.

"Here." I pull my arm away from him, and pass him my half of the money. There doesn't seem much point in keeping it, and if I'm honest I reckon Andrew was the main lure tonight anyway, so it's not like I really earned it. I press the money into his palm, and shove my hands back into my pockets.

"Oh!" he says, grinning and tucking the notes into his wallet with the rest. "Thanks. And thank you for… Well, for all of this."

"My pleasure." I pat him on the shoulder, and before he can make things any more uncomfortable, I flag down a cab for him.

"Goodnight, then!" he says, loud and a bit breathless, like a drunk kid on his first night out.

"See you around." I shut the cab door and smile at him through the glass. I won't see him again, though, not unless I go looking for him. He's got what he wanted, he won't be back.

I should probably get a cab myself, but I don't feel like being talked at, not by anyone. It's a few miles back to my place, but tonight's warm even for the middle of June, so I set off walking instead. I need every extra shred of tiredness I can pile on myself these days, if I want to get any sleep.

It doesn't even help if there's someone else there. I've laid there next to Miller, listening to him breathe, feeling the heat of his skin warming the air between us, and no matter how much I try to empty out my mind, it keeps wandering back to all the things I did up there, all the things that happened or almost happened to me. My mind's great at filling in the blanks, telling me what would have gone down if I'd said the wrong word here, made the wrong choice there, lingered a second too long or moved a second too soon. The things that could have gone wrong seem to stick in my head just as much as the things that actually did, like it doesn't even matter that I got away with it. Like part of me did fail after all.

It worked, though, and I'm glad it did, don't get me wrong. Me and the rest of the little termites the boss sent out there, we did our job. Now a bit more of the map's shaded in our colour, and there's a few more zeroes on the end of the old man's bank balance, and that's all you can ask for, isn't it? It can't all be sunshine and rainbows, can it? And if it's taken me a while to get back into the swing of things here, who can blame me? Who'd expect me to come out of there exactly the way I was when I went in? You think I can do all that, and then slip straight back into place here without a hitch? Like there's nothing wrong with me a good night's sleep and a new suit wouldn't fix?

"I thought you were never going to show up."

It takes me a minute to recognise the figure sitting on the steps in front of my building. When I work it out, I don't like it.

"You won't come and see me, so I've come to see you," Tommy says, getting up to his feet. "One of us has got to be the grown-up, and it's not gonna be you, is it?"

"Go home, Tommy. I'm too tired for this, I've been out all night and—"

"Yeah, I _know_ you have. Been running yourself ragged, ain't you?" And the little punk squares up to me, gets right up in my face as he talks, tipping his head back and staring up at me with those wide, dark eyes blazing.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means you've been keeping yourself nice and busy, ain't you? Seeing Mr Turner, seeing Mr Miller, seeing all kinds of boys."

"So what?"

"So I want to know what it is. What've I done? What's wrong with me, that makes you want to spend time with anyone—" His voice hitches, and his face twists into a scowl even harder than before. "With everyone who ain't me. What is it, Johnny? What's special about me?"

"Nothing," I spit the word out, as if that'll make it true. "There's nothing special about you, Tommy, nothing at—"

The punch he throws is so fast that I couldn't have dodged if I tried. He gets me square in the mouth, and the whole front of my face lights up on fire as I stagger backwards. He lunges forward, trying to land another, but this time I see it coming. I grab his shoulder with one fist and swing the other up into his stomach, doubling him over like a knife snapping shut. It doesn't stop him for long, though, and when he straightens himself up his eyes are full of fire and his lips are curled into a sneer. He launches himself at me again, and I throw myself at him, and we grapple and struggle and flail at each other so hard that my whole body aches with the strain, but I don't care. I feel the most alive I've felt since I came back. Even the punches he lands on me, even the flares of hot thick pain that throb wherever those lucky hits fall, even those feel better than what came before. And Tommy, he's a vision right now. Pale cheeks flushed pink with effort, dark eyes wild and staring, hair damp with sweat and falling messily across his forehead, garish shirt half-unbuttoned and half-untucked so I can just see the line of his collarbone and the corner of a tattoo. I feel like I've got no right to touch him, but he isn't giving me a choice about it.

"Is that all you got?" he says, throwing himself at me again. "You getting old, Johnny?"

I grab hold of his shoulders and shove him back, but it doesn't stick. The muscle he's put on, you'd think they locked him in the wrestling gym the whole time I was away. When I left, he was a scrawny little thing, all fire and stupidity, but now he's got a good solid layer of muscle behind all that swaggering. Now it'll be a challenge to beat him down. But I'll say one thing for that place, and the things I had to do up there: it gave me plenty of practice fighting guys I had no chance against. Compared to that, Tommy's a breeze.

"Keep talking, kid." I bring my knee up into his stomach, and as he curls forward, I let him have my fist again, right on that smart mouth. "Keep up the backchat and you're going to get what's coming to you."

"Oh yeah?" He straightens up, and wipes his hand across his lips. "And who's gonna give it to me? You?"

I don't answer. I just stare at him, at the blood smeared across the curve of his cheek, at the gleam of his hair under the streetlight, at the rise and fall of his chest under that cheap shirt. I stare at him, and it takes all of my self-control not to turn around and run.

"Thought as much." Tommy scoffs, and starts to turn away. "You want to go back up north, Johnny. I reckon you left your guts up there."

I'm on him before I know what I'm doing. One punch to the stomach doubles him over, and a second drops him to his knees. I yank his head back, forcing him to look up at me, and I bring the back of my hand down across his cheek as hard as any slap the boss ever gave me.

"Guts?" I hiss, giving him my palm across the other cheek. "You want to talk to me about guts, you little punk?" I hit him again, and again, forehand and backhand, letting it all go as I talk. "There's no such thing. You call it guts, if a guy does something stupid that might put him in hospital or the morgue or the bottom of a river? If he walks into something knowing it'll get him hurt? That's guts? That's not guts, kid, that's stupidity, and you want me to keep on being stupid, do you? You want me to go up there and get my hands dirty, go up there and do all that, and then come back down here and touch you with those same hands? You want me to go right back to how it was, do you? You want me to take you out, knowing halfway through the night I might—"

I shake my head, trying to clear it, and when that doesn't work I grab hold of Tommy's shirtfront and give him a shake instead.

"You don't want that. You want the Johnny that went up there, but you can't have him. He doesn't exist, kid. And the guy that came back, you don't want to touch him with a bargepole."

I let go of him, and he looks up at me silently, and for a moment I think I've gotten through to him. And then he hisses "You patronising old bastard," and he lunges at me with bared teeth and sheer fury in his eyes.

Somehow I manage to dodge out the way and catch hold of him as he staggers past me. Before he has a chance to get his balance, I twist his arm up behind his back and slam him forward against the railings. He struggles against me hard enough that I have to hook my forearm around his neck before he'll settle down.

"Of all the stupid reasons," he says, wheezing a bit as my arm tightens around his throat. "Doing me a favour, were you? And I thought _I_ was an idiot."

I don't know what to say, so I just keep hold of him and mutter "Yeah, well."

"How about you let _me_ decide what I want? I'm not a little kid, Johnny."

And I guess he isn't, at that. He must be, what, twenty-one now? To me he looks like a kid, but he's not that much younger than I was when I met the boss, is he? _That's different_ , I want to say, but it isn't really. It's not different at all.

"Alright," I say, loosening my grip a bit. "What do you want, then?"

Tommy just laughs and pushes back against me, leaning his head against my shoulder. "What d'you think? Did you leave your brains up there as well?"

"Watch it, kid." I move my hand around to cup his throat, stroking my thumb under his jaw, firm enough I can feel the throb of his pulse against my skin. "Maybe I am getting old after all, but the day I let a little punk like you get away with cheeking me off, that's the day I retire."

He swallows, and I can feel his throat bobbing under my palm. Then he laughs, and leans back so hard against me he's almost sitting in my lap standing up. "Yeah? And what're you going to do about it?"

I let go of him and give him a hard shove in the direction of the steps. "Get inside, and keep that mouth shut until we're upstairs."

For once he does as he's told, grinning silently all the way up to my flat. Then as soon as I've shut the door, he squares up to me again and says "Reckon you can keep me in line, do you? We'll see about—"

The back of my hand shuts him up, and I give him another, for good measure. The look he gives me as he rubs his cheek is pure seething lust. It's like seeing myself in a mirror, the younger me, but so much better, so much _more_ than I was. My eyes could never have been that perfectly fierce. My lips could never have curled into such a perfect smirk. My skin could never have been so perfectly pale underneath all the bruises and scrapes and ink.

"Cocky little punk," I laugh, shoving him backwards until he's up against the wall. Before I can pin him there, though, he brings his knee up into my stomach and shoves me right back, grinning at me as I stagger away from him.

"You're too slow, Johnny," he laughs, hooking his thumbs through his belt-loops and just standing there, practically begging for it.

I throw myself at him, and he lunges at me, and we collide in a hot, sweat-damp jumble of arms and fists and knees, slamming muscle against muscle and hot skin against skin, and the whole time we're laughing and calling each other every name under the sun, like a couple of kids grappling around just for fun. And then I get him up against the wall, twisting his arm up high behind his back, grinding my cock against the curve of his ass, and it's like a gauge inside him just ticked over into the red.

"Too long," he says, breathing hard. "It's been too long. You gotta fuck me, Johnny, it's been months and I'm gonna go mad if—"

"Calm down, kid," I laugh, as if I'm not half-mad with the need for it myself. "You'll get what's coming to you, don't worry."

I yank his jeans down and lube him up quickly, as quick as I can with my hands this unsteady. Then I kick his legs apart, pinning him in place with a hand on his neck, and I can feel him trembling as I slide my cock into him, shaking the way he always does when he's this keyed-up. As soon as I'm all the way in, he braces himself against the wall and starts to move, squirming on my cock like he can't keep still.

"Come on, give it to me, don't hold back…" he groans, and I should feel bad for teasing him, but I can't resist.

"You want this, do you?" I pull back, almost all the way out, waiting just long enough to make him groan in frustration.

"I ain't gonna beg," he says, with a little smirk. "Not yet, anyway."

I drive my cock back into him, giving him the whole lot in one quick thrust, hard enough to make him yelp. Fair enough, if he's not going to beg, I don't need begging tonight. I just want to hear him enjoying himself, enjoying me. I just want to hear his voice while I fuck him. I just want to feel his taut little muscles straining against me, the heat of him all around me, the soft stroke of his skin against mine. I just want to feel him pressed close to me, as close as I can get.


End file.
